The matutinal sun rose, clear and resplendent, over the verdant olive-groves and vineyards of the Shiré. The hobbites rose rather later, and made their leisurely way to the marriage feast, which had been prepared in the café just outside Le pony prançant.

Samouard Gamgès and Rosédès Cotolon sat at the head of the table, across from M. Morrie, the benefactor who had offered Samouard a position as captain on board the Pharazon and had given the couple a very respectable dowry, including a mushroom farm.

"The mushrooms excel in the pays de Magot," he said. "They execute truly remarkable effects on those who partake of them, and are said to render one’s sex life interesting in the highest degree."

"Monsieur, your generosity towards me is of the most stupefying," replied Gamgès. "I were naught but a ninnihammier, and worse, did I not wholeheartedly acknowledge my debt."

M. Morrie shrugged off this praise and opened a bottle of Vieux Vignobles.

Gamgès was clad with becoming simplicity in a sailor suit à la Gondor; Rosédès, lovely as an elf-maid from Rivendeau or Lottaloria, sashayed with the light, free step of a Longbottommienne.